Chapter 20: Lord Voldemort's Request


Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on Monday morning,

restored to full health by the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able

to enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and poisoned, the best of

which was that Hermione was friends with Ron again. Hermione even

escorted them down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that Ginny had

argued with Dean. The drowsing creature in Harry's chest suddenly raised its

head, sniffing the air hopefully.



"What did they row about?" he asked, trying to sound casual as they

turned onto a seventh-floor corridor that was deserted but for a very small

girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She looked terrified

at the sight of the approaching sixth years and dropped the heavy brass

scales she was carrying.


"It's all right!" said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward to help her. "Here

..."


She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, "Reparo." The girl

did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as they passed and

watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her.


"I swear they're getting smaller," he said.


"Never mind her," said Harry, a little impatiently. "What did Ginny and

Dean row about, Hermione?"

"Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludgu at you,"

said Hermione.


"It must've looked funny," said Ron reasonably. "It didn't look funny at

all!" said Hermione hotly. "It looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn't

caught Harry he could have been very badly hurt!"


"Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to split up over it,"

said Harry, still trying to sound casual. "Or are they still together?"


"Yes, they are -- but why are you so interested?" asked Hermione, giving

Harry a sharp look.


"I just don't want my Quidditch team messed up again!" he said hastily,

but Hermione continued to look suspicious, and he was most relieved when

a voice behind them called, "Harry!" giving him an excuse to turn his back

on her. "Oh, hi, Luna."


- "I went to the hospital wing to find you," said Luna, rummaging in her

bag. "But they said you'd left..."


She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool,

and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Ron's hands,

finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to

Harry.

". . . I've been told to give you this."


It was a small roll of parchment, which Harry recognized at once as

another invitation to a lesson with Dumbledore.


"Tonight," he told Ron and Hermione, once he had unrolled it.


"Nice commentary last match!" said Ron to Luna as she took back the

green onion, the toadstool, and the cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely.


"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" she said. "Everyone says I was

dreadful."


"No, I'm serious!" said Ron earnestly. "I can't remember enjoying

commentary more! What is this, by the way?" he added, holding the

onionlike object up to eye level.


"Oh, it's a Gurdyroot," she said, stuffing the cat litter and the toadstool

back into her bag. "You can keep it if you like, I've got a few of them.

They're really excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies." And she walked

away, leaving Ron chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot.


"You know, she's grown on me, Luna," he said, as they set off again for

the Great Hall. "I know she's insane, but it's in a good --" He stopped

talking very suddenly. Lavender Brown was standing at the foot of the

marble staircase looking thunderous. "Hi," said Ron nervously.

"C'mon," Harry muttered to Hermione, and they sped past, though not

before they had heard Lavender say, "Why didn't you tell me you were

getting out today? And why was she with you?"


Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he appeared at breakfast half an

hour later, and though he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them

exchange a word all the time they were together. Hermione was acting as

though she was quite oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Harry saw an

inexplicable smirk cross her face. All that day she seemed to be in a

particularly good mood, and that evening in the common room she even

consented to look over (in other words, finish writing) Harry's Herbology

essay, something she had been resolutely refusing to do up to this point,

because she had known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work.


"Thanks a lot, Hermione," said Harry, giving her a hasty pat on the back

as he checked his watch and saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. "Listen,

I've got to hurry or I'll be late for Dumbledore. ..."


She did not answer, but merely crossed out a few of his feebler sentences

in a weary sort of way. Grinning, Harry hurried out through the portrait hole

and off to the headmasters office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the mention of

toffee eclairs, and Harry took the spiral staircase two steps at a time,

knocking on the door just as a clock within chimed eight.


"Enter," called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door,

it was wrenched open from inside. There stood Professor Trelawney.

"Aha!" she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as she blinked at him

through her magnifying spectacles.


"So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your

office, Dumbledore!"


"My dear Sybill," said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, "there

is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry

does have an appointment, and I really don't think there is any more to be

said --"


"Very well," said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. "If

you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it. ...


Perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated. ..."


She pushed past Harry and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they

heard her stumble halfway down, and Harry guessed that she had tripped

over one of her trailing shawls.


"Please close the door and sit down, Harry," said Dumbledore, sounding

rather tired.


Harry obeyed, noticing as he took his usual seat in front of Dumbledore's

desk that the Pensieve lay between them once more, as did two more tiny

crystal bottles full of swirling memory.

"Professor Trelawney still isn't happy Firenze is teaching, then?" Harry

asked.


"No," said Dumbledore, "Divination is turning out to be much more

trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I

cannot ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor

can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of

the danger she would be in outside the castle. She does not know -- and I

think it would be unwise to enlighten her -- that she made the prophecy

about you and Voldemort, you see."


Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, "But never mind my staffing

problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly -- have

you managed the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?"


"Ah," said Harry, brought up short. What with Apparition lessons and

Quidditch and Ron being poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his

determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry had almost

forgotten about the memory Dumbledore had asked him to extract from

Professor Slughorn. "Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it at the end of

Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn't give it to me." There was a little silence.


"I see," said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry over the top of his

half-moon spectacles and giving Harry the usual sensation that he was being

X-rayed. "And you feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this

matter, do you? That you have exercised all of your considerable ingenuity?

That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve

the memory?"


"Well," Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to

get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. "Well . . .

the day Ron swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to Professor

Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough

mood --" "And did that work?" asked Dumbledore. "Well, no, sir, because

Ron got poisoned --" "-- which, naturally, made you forget all about trying

to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing else, while your best

friend was in danger. Once it became clear that Mr. Weasley was going to

make a full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you returned to the

task I set you. I thought I made it clear to you how very important that

memory is. Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most

crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it."


A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Harry's head all the

way down his body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even

sound angry, but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold

disappointment was worse than anything.


"Sir," he said, a little desperately, "it isn't that I wasn't bothered or

anything, I've just had other -- other things . . ."


"Other things on your mind," Dumbledore finished the sentence for him.

"I see."

Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable silence Harry

had ever experienced with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on,

punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the portrait of Armando

Dippet over Dumbledore's head. Harry felt strangely diminished, as though

he had shrunk a little since he had entered the room. When he could stand it

no longer he said, "Professor Dumbledore, I'm really sorry. I should have

done more. ... I should have realized you wouldn't have asked me to do it if

it wasn't really important."


"Thank you for saying that, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "May I

hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There

will be little point in our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory."


"I'll do it, sir, I'll get it from him," he said earnestly.


"Then we shall say no more about it just now," said Dumbledore more

kindly, "but continue with our story where we left off. You remember where

that was?"


"Yes, sir," said Harry quickly. "Voldemort killed his father and his

grandparents and made it look as though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he

went back to Hogwarts and he asked ... he asked Professor Slughorn about

Horcruxes," he mumbled shamefacedly.


"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Now, you will remember, I hope, that I

told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be

entering the realms of guesswork and speculation?"

"Yes, sir".


"Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources

of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of

seventeen?"


Harry nodded.


"But now, Harry," said Dumbledore, "now things become murkier and

stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been

almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the man

Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether there is a soul alive, apart from himself,

who could give us a full account of his life since he left Hogwarts. However,

I have two last memories that I would like to share with you." Dumbledore

indicated the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the Pensieve. "I shall

then be glad of your opinion as to whether the conclusions I have drawn

from them seem likely."


The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this highly made Harry feel

even more deeply ashamed that he had failed in the task of retrieving the

Horcrux memory, and he shifted guiltily in his seat as Dumbledore raised the

first of the two bottles to the light and examined it.


"I hope you are not tired of diving into other people's memories, for they

are curious recollections, these two," he said. "This first one came from a

very old house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey

witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts.


"He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have

expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his

classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left

Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle,

prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. I

know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that

he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in

touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers. The next thing the staff

knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes."


"At Borgin and Burkes?" Harry repeated, stunned.


"At Borgin and Burkes," repeated Dumbledore calmly. "I think you will

see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey's

memory. But this was not Voldemort's first choice of job. Hardly anyone

knew of it at the time -- I was one of the few in whom the then headmaster

confided -- but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked

whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher."


"He wanted to stay here? Why?" asked Harry, more amazed still.


"I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to

Professor Dippet," said Dumbledore. "Firstly, and very importantly,

Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been

to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only

place he had felt at home."


Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how

he felt about Hogwarts too.


"Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly

Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students

who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still

mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.


"And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence

over young witches and wizards. Perhaps he had gained the idea from

Professor Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best terms, who had

demonstrated how influential a role a teacher can play. I do not imagine for

an instant that Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at

Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a

place where he might begin to build himself an army."


"But he didn't get the job, sir?"


"No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at

eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to

teach."


"How did you feel about that, sir?" asked Harry hesitantly. "Deeply

uneasy," said Dumbledore. "I had advised Armando against the appointment

-- I did not give the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was very

fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty. But I did not want Lord

Voldemort back at this school, and especially not in a position of power."


"Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?"


Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before Dumbledore gave it.


"Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old

Professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts

for nearly fifty years.


"So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had

admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that,

working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and

handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only

exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you know,

Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent

to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he

was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this."


"I'll bet he was," said Harry, unable to contain himself.


"Well, quite," said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. "And now it is time to

hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch

by the name of Hepzibah Smith."

Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork flew out, and he

tipped the swirling memory into the Pensieve, saying as he did so, "After

you, Harry."


Harry got to his feet and bent once more over the rippling silver contents

of the stone basin until his face touched them. He tumbled through dark

nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old

lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that

flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. She was

looking into a small jeweled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already

scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-

elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers.


"Hurry up, Hokey!" said Hepzibah imperiously. "He said he'd come at

four, it's only a couple of minutes to and he's never been late yet!"


She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The

top of the elf's head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah's chair, and her

papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore

draped like a toga.


"How do I look?" said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various

angles of her face in the mirror.


"Lovely, madam," squeaked Hokey.

Harry could only assume that it was down in Hokey's contract that she

must lie through her teeth when asked this question, because Hepzibah

Smith looked a long way from lovely in his opinion.


A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped.


"Quick, quick, he's here, Hokey!" cried Hepzibah and the elf scurried out

of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see

how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at

least a dozen things: There were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases

full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many

flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a

cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory.


The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man

Harry had no difficulty whatsoever in recognizing as Voldemort. He was

plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at

school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked

more handsome than ever. He picked his way through the cramped room

with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low

over Hepzibah's fat little hand, brushing it with his lips.


"I brought you flowers," he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from

nowhere.


"You naughty boy, you shouldn't have!" squealed old Hepzibah, though

Harry noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little

table. "You do spoil this old lady, Tom. ... Sit down, sit down. . . . Where's

Hokey? Ah ..."


The house-elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of

little cakes, which she set at her mistress's elbow.


"Help yourself, Tom," said Hepzibah, "I know how you love my cakes.

Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said

it a hundred times. ..."


Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered.


"Well, what's your excuse for visiting this time?" she asked, bat-ring her

lashes.


"Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made

armor," said Voldemort. "Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than

fair --"


"Now, now, not so fast, or I'll think you're only here for my trinkets!"

pouted Hepzibah.


"I am ordered here because of them," said Voldemort quietly. "I am only a

poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to

inquire --"

"Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!" said Hepzibah, waving a little hand. "I've

something to show you that I've never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a

secret, Tom? Will you promise you won't tell Mr. Burke I've got it? He'd

never let me rest if he knew I'd shown it to you, and I'm not selling, not to

Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not

how many Galleons you can get for it."


"I'd be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me," said Voldemort

quietly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle.


"I had Hokey bring it out for me . . . Hokey, where are you? I want to

show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure. ... In fact, bring both, while you're at it.

..."


"Here, madam," squeaked the house-elf, and Harry saw two leather boxes,

one on top of the other, moving across the room as if of their own volition,

though he knew the tiny elf was holding them over her head as she wended

her way between tables, ***pouffes, and footstools.


"Now," said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them

in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one, "I think you'll like this,

Tom. . . . Oh, if my family knew I was showing you. . . . They can't wait to

get their hands on this!"


She opened the lid. Harry edged forward a little to get a better view and

saw what looked like a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles.

"I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good

look!" whispered Hepzibah, and Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered

hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Harry

thought he saw a red gleam in his dark eyes. His greedy expression was

curiously mirrored on Hepzibah's face, except that her tiny eyes were fixed

upon Voldemort's handsome features.


"A badger," murmured Voldemort, examining the engraving upon the

cup. "Then this was . . . ?"


"Helga Hufflepuff's, as you very well know, you clever boy!" said

Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually

pinching his hollow cheek. "Didn't I tell you I was distantly descended? This

has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn't it?

And all sorts of powers it's supposed to possess too, but I haven't tested them

thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here. . . ."


She hooked the cup back off Voldemort's long forefinger and restored it

gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to

notice the shadow that crossed Voldemort's face as the cup was taken away.


"Now then," said Hepzibah happily, "where's Hokey? Oh yes, there you

are -- take that away now, Hokey."


The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah turned her attention

to the much flatter box in her lap.

"I think you'll like this even more, Tom," she whispered. "Lean in a little,

dear boy, so you can see. . . . Of course, Burke knows I've got this one, I

bought it from him, and I daresay he'd love to get it back when I'm gone. ..."


She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon

the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket.


Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it

up to the light, staring at it.


"Slytherin's mark," he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate,

serpentine S.


"That's right!" said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of

Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. "I had to pay an arm and a leg

for it, but I couldn't let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for

my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman

who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value --"


There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort's eyes flashed scarlet at

the words, and Harry saw his knuckles whiten on the locket's chain.


"-- I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you are. . . . Pretty, isn't

it? And again, all kinds of powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice

and safe. . . ."

She reached out to take the locket back. For a moment, Harry thought

Voldemort was not going to let go of it, but then it had slid through his

fingers and was back in its red velvet cushion.


"So there you are, Tom, clear, and I hope you enjoyed that!"


She looked him full in the face and for the first time, Harry saw her

foolish smile falter.


"Are you all right, dear?"


"Oh yes," said Voldemort quietly. "Yes, I'm very well. ..."


"I thought -- but a trick of the light, I suppose --" said Hepzibah, looking

unnerved, and Harry guessed that she too had seen the momentary red gleam

in Voldemort's eyes. "Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again.

... The usual enchantments...


"Time to leave, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly, and as the in tie elf

bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Harry once again

above the elbow and together they rose up through oblivion and back to

Dumbledore's office.


"Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene," said Dumbledore,

resuming his seat and indicating that Harry should do the same. "Hokey the

house-elf was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress's evening

cocoa by accident."

"No way!" said Harry angrily.


"I see we are of one mind," said Dumbledore. "Certainly, then are many

similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases,

somebody else took the blame, someone who had a clear memory of having

caused the death --" "Hokey confessed?"


"She remembered putting something in her mistress's cocoa that turned

out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison, said Dumbledore.

"It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused

--"


"Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!" "Yes,

that is my conclusion too," said Dumbledore. "And, just as with Morfin, the

Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey --"


"-- because she was a house-elf," said Harry. He had rarely felt more in

sympathy with the society Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W. "Precisely," said

Dumbledore. "She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink,

and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of

Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life

was almost over -- but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that

Voldemort knew of the existence of the cup and the locket.


"By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah's family had realized that

two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of

this, for she had many hiding places, having always guarded her collection

most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the

locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes,

the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so

well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he

had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that

was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time.


"Now," said Dumbledore, "if you don't mind, Harry, I want to pause once

more to draw your attention to certain points of our story. Voldemort had

committed another murder; whether it was his first since he killed the

Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen,

he killed not for revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies

that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the

other children at his orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin's

ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibahs cup and locket."


"But," said Harry, frowning, "it seems mad. . . . Risking everything,

throwing away his job, just for those . . ."


"Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort," said Dumbledore. "I hope

you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him,

Harry, but you must admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the

locket, at least, as rightfully his." "The locket maybe," said Harry, "but why

take the cup as well?"

"It had belonged to another of Hogwarts's founders," said Dumbledore. "I

think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist

an object so steeped in Hogwarts history. There were other reasons, I think.

... I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course.


"And now for the very last recollection I have to show you, at least until

you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn's memory for us. Ten years

separates Hokey's memory and this one, ten years during which we can only

guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing. . . ." Harry got to his feet once

more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve.


"Whose memory is it?" he asked. "Mine," said Dumbledore.


And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass,

landing in the very office he had just left. There was Fawkes slumbering

happily on his perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who

looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Harry, though both

hands were whole and undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less

lined. The one difference between the present-day office and this one was

that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the window

in the dark and building up on the outside ledge.


The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure

enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he

said, "Enter."

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had entered the room. His

features were not those Harry had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron

almost two years ago: They were not as snake-like, the eyes were not yet

scarlet, the face not yet masklike, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom

Riddle. It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were

waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently

bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Harry knew they

would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale

as the snow glistening on his shoulders.


The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise. Evidently

this visit had been made by appointment.


"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore easily. "Won't you sit down?"


"Thank you," said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore

had gestured -- the very seat, by the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated

in the present. "I heard that you had become headmaster," he said, and his

voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. "A worthy choice."


"I am glad you approve," said Dumbledore, smiling. "May I offer you a

drink?"


"That would be welcome," said Voldemort. "I have come a long way."


Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the

Pensieve, but which then was full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a

goblet of wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his

desk. . "So, Tom ... to what do I owe the pleasure?"


Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine.


"They do not call me 'Tom' anymore," he said. "These days, 1 am known

as --"


"I know what you are known as," said Dumbledore, smiling, pleasantly.

"But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the

irritating things about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget

their charges' youthful beginnings."


He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained

expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change

subtly: Dumbledore's refusal to use Voldemort's chosen name was a refusal

to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell

that Voldemort took it as such.


"I am surprised you have remained here so long," said Voldemort after a

short pause. "I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never

wished to leave school."


"Well," said Dumbledore, still smiling, "to a wizard such as myself, there

can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone

young minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of

teaching too."

"I see it still," said Voldemort. "I merely wondered why you -- who are

so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been

offered the post of Minister --"


"Three times at the last count, actually," said Dumbledore. "But the

Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in

common, I think."


Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine.

Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but

waited, with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first.


"I have returned," he said, after a little while, "later, perhaps, than

Professor Dippet expected . . . but I have returned, nevertheless, to request

again what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to

ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must

know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. I could show

and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard."


Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a

while before speaking.


"Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving

us," he said quietly. "Rumors of your doings have reached your old school,

Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them."

Voldemort's expression remained impassive as he said, "Greatness

inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this,

Dumbledore."


"You call it 'greatness,' what you have been doing, do you?" asked

Dumbledore delicately.


"Certainly," said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. "I have

experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than

they have ever been pushed --"


"Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him quietly. "Of some.

Of others, you remain . . . forgive me . . . woefully ignorant."


For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more

threatening than a look of rage.


"The old argument," he said softly. "But nothing I have seen in the world

has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than

my kind of magic, Dumbledore."


"Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places," suggested

Dumbledore.




"Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at

Hogwarts?" said Voldemort. "Will you let me return? Will you let me share

my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your

disposal. I am yours to command."


Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "And what will become of those whom

you command? What will happen to those who call themselves -- or so

rumor has it -- the Death Eaters?"


Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know

this name; he saw Voldemort's eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils

flare.


"My friends," he said, after a moment's pause, "will carry on without me, I

am sure."


"I am glad to hear that you consider them friends," said Dumbledore. "I

was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants."


"You are mistaken," said Voldemort.


"Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group

of them -- Nott, Rosier, Muldber, Dolohov -- awaiting your return?

Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely

to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post."


There could be no doubt that Dumbledore's detailed knowledge of those

with whom he was traveling was even less welcome to Voldemort; however,

he rallied almost at once.

"You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore."


"Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen," said Dumbledore lightly.

"Now, Tom . . ."


Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the

tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture.


"Let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by

henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?"


Voldemort looked coldly surprised. "A job I do not want? On the

contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much."


"Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach

any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you're

after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?"


Voldemort sneered. "If you do not want to give me a job --"


"Of course I don't," said Dumbledore. "And I don't think for a moment

you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have

had a purpose."


Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his

features thick with rage. "This is your final word?"

"It is," said Dumbledore, also standing.


"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."


"No, nothing," said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. "The

time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and

force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom. ... I

wish I could. . . ."


For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: He

was sure that Voldemort's hand had twitched toward his pocket and his

wand; but then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the

door was closing, and he was gone.


Harry felt Dumbledore's hand close over his arm again and moments later,

they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow

building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore's hand was blackened and

dead-looking once more.


"Why?" said Harry at once, looking up into Dumbledore's face. "Why did

he come back? Did you ever find out?"


"I have ideas," said Dumbledore, "but no more than that."


"What ideas, sir?"

"I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that memory from

Professor Slughorn," said Dumbledore.


"When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be

clear ... to both of us."


Harry was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had

walked to the door and was holding it open for him, he did not move at once.


"Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn't

say. ..."


"Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job," said

Dumbledore. "The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we

have never been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for

longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort."